He was now forty-one, in the prime of his life and vigor. Italy had
become ripe for a revolution. Charles Albert, King of Sardinia, had
declared himself ready to give constitutional liberty to his people, and
to help throw off the Austrian yoke. Garibaldi believed that his hour
had come, and saying good-bye to the Montevideans, who were loathe to
part with him, he took fifty-six of his brave Italian Legion, and sailed
for Nice, in the ship Esperanza. His beloved Anita improvised a
Sardinian flag, made from a counterpane, a red shirt, and a bit of old
green uniform; and the little company gave themselves to earnest plans
and hopes. They met a hearty reception on their arrival; Garibaldi's
mother taking Anita and her three children, Menotti, Meresita, and
Ricciotti, to her home. General Garibaldi at once presented himself
before Charles Albert, and offered his services. He wore a striking
costume, consisting of a cap of scarlet cloth, a red blouse, and a white
cloak lined with red, with a dagger at his belt, besides his sword. The
King, perhaps remembering that the brave soldier was once a Republican
in sentiment, made the great mistake of declining his aid. Nothing
daunted, he hurried to Milan, only to find that the weak King had
yielded it to Austria. Charles Albert soon abdicated in favor of his son
Victor Emmanuel, and died from sorrow and defeat.
Meantime Rome had declared herself a Republic, and Pius IX. had fled the
city. Garibaldi was asked to defend her, and entered with his troops,
April 28, in 1849. England and France were urged to remain neutral,
while Rome fought for freedom. But alas! Louis Napoleon, then President
of the French Republic, desired to please the Papal party, and sent
troops to reinstate the Pope! When Rome found that this man at the head
of a republic was willing to put a knife to her throat, her people
fought like tigers. They swarmed out of the workshops armed with weapons
of every kind, while women urged them on with applause. For nearly three
months Rome held out against France and Austria, Garibaldi showing
himself an almost superhuman leader, and then the end came. Pius IX.
re-entered the city, and the Republic was crushed by monarchies.
When all was lost, Garibaldi called his soldiers together, and, leaping
on horseback, shouted, "Venice and Garibaldi do not surrender. Whoever
will, let him follow me! Italy is not yet dead!" and he dashed off at
full speed. By lonely mountain-paths, he, with Anita and about two
hundred of his troops, arrived on the shore of the Adriatic, where
thirteen boats were waiting to carry them to Venice. Nine were soon
taken by the Austrians, the rest escaping, though nearly all were
finally captured and shot at once. The General and his wife escaped to a
cornfield, where she lay very ill, her head resting on his knee. Some
peasants, though fearful that they would be detected by the Austrians,
brought a cart, and carried the dying wife to the nearest cottage,
where, as soon as she was laid upon the bed, she breathed her last,
leaning on Garibaldi's arm. Overwhelmed with the loss of his idol, he
seemed benumbed, with no care whether he was made a prisoner or not. At
last, urged for the sake of Italy to flee, he made the peasants promise
to bury Anita under the shade of the pine grove near by, and, hunted
like a robber from mountain to mountain, he found a hiding-place among
the rocks of the Island of Caprera. There was nothing left now but to
seek a refuge in the great American Republic.
Landing in New York, the noble General asked aid from no one, but
believing, as all true-minded persons believe, that any labor is
honorable, began to earn his living by making candles. What a contrast
between an able general working in a tallow factory, and some proud
young men and women who consent to be supported by friends, and thus
live on charity! Woe to America if her citizens shall ever feel
themselves too good to work!
For a year and a half he labored patiently, his children three thousand
miles away with his mother. Then he became captain of a merchant vessel
between China and Peru. When told that he could bring some Chinese
slaves to South America in his cargo, he refused, saying, "Never will I
become a trafficker in human flesh." America might buy and sell four
millions of human beings, but not so Garibaldi. After four years he
decided to return to Italy. With the little money he had saved, he
bought half the rocky island of Caprera, five miles long, off the coast
of Sardinia, whose boulders had once sheltered him, built him a
one-story plain house, and took his three children there to live, his
mother having died.
Meantime Cavour, the great Italian statesman, had not been idle in
diplomacy. The Crimean War had been fought, and Italy had helped England
and France against Russia. When Napoleon III. went to war with Austria
in 1859, Cavour was glad to make Italy his ally. He called Garibaldi
from Caprera, and made him Major-General of the Alps. At once the red
blouse and white cloak seemed to inspire the people with confidence.
Lombardy sprang to arms. Every house was open, and every table spread
for the Liberators. And then began a series of battles, which, for
bravery and dash and skill, made the name of Garibaldi the terror of
Austria, and the hope and pride of Italy. Tuscany, Modena, Parma, and
Lucca declared for King Victor Emmanuel. The battles of Magenta and
Solferino made Austria bite the dust, and gladly give up Lombardy.
At last it seemed as if Italy were to be redeemed and reunited.
Garibaldi started with his famous "Mille," or thousand men, to release
the two Sicilies from the hated rule of Francis, the son of Ferdinand
II. The first battle was fought at Palermo, the Neapolitans who
outnumbered the troops of Garibaldi four to one being defeated after
four hours' hard fighting. Then the people dared to show their true
feelings. Peasants flocked in from the mountains, and ladies wore red
dresses and red feathers. When the cars carried the soldiers from one
town to another, the people crowded the engine, and shouted themselves
hoarse. Drums were beaten, and trumpets blown, and women pressed
forward to kiss the hand or touch the cloak of the Lion of Italy. He was
everywhere the bravest of the brave. Once when surrounded by four
dragoons, who called upon him to surrender, he drew his sword, and said,
"I am Garibaldi; you must surrender to me."
And yet amid all this honor and success in war, and supremacy in power,
as he was the Dictator, he was so poor that he would wash his red shirt
in a brook, and wait for it to dry while he ate his lunch of bread and
water, with a little fruit. No wonder the Sicilians believed him to be a
second Messiah, and the French that he could shake the bullets from his
body into his loose red shirt, and empty them out at his leisure! The
sailor boy had become the hero of all who loved liberty the world over.
When the war was ended, he resigned his Dictatorship, handed the two
Sicilies over to his sovereign, distributed medals to his devoted
soldiers, and returned to his island home at Caprera, with barely three
dollars in his pocket, having borrowed one hundred to pay his debts. How
rarely does any age produce such a man as Garibaldi!
But Rome was not yet the capital of Italy. The hero could not rest while
the city was governed by a Pope. At last, tired of waiting for the king
to take action, he started with three thousand men for Rome. Victor
Emmanuel, fearing to offend France, if the Pope were molested, sent the
royal troops against Garibaldi at Aspromonte, who badly wounded him,
and carried him to a prison on the Gulf of Spezzia. The people,
indignant at the Government, crowded around him, bearing gifts, and
kissing the hem of his raiment. They even bored a hole in the door of
the prison, that they might catch a glimpse of their idol, as he lay on
his iron bedstead, a gift from an English friend.
After his release and return to Caprera, he visited England in 1864, the
whole country doing him honor. Stations were gaily decorated, streets
arched with flowers, ladies dressed in red; the Duke of Sutherland
entertained him; London gave him the freedom of the city; Tennyson made
him his guest at the Isle of Wight; and crowds made it scarcely possible
for him to appear on the public thoroughfares. He refused to receive a
purse of money from his friends, and went back to Caprera, majestic in
his unselfishness.
Again Italy called him to help her in her alliance with Prussia against
Austria in 1866, and again he fought nobly. The year following he
attempted to take Rome, but was a second time arrested and imprisoned
for fear of Napoleon III. When that monarch fell at Sedan, and the
French troops were withdrawn from the Eternal City, Victor Emmanuel
entered without a struggle, and Rome was free.
In 1874, after helping the French Republic, the brave Spartan was
elected to Parliament. He was now sixty-seven. As he entered Rome, the
streets were blocked with people, who several times attempted to remove
the horses, and draw the carriage themselves. Ah! if Anita had only
been there to have seen this homage of a grateful nation. He entered the
Senate House on the arm of his son Menotti, and when he rose in his red
shirt and gray cloak to take the oath, so infirm that he was obliged to
be supported by two friends, men wept as they recalled his struggles,
and shouted frantically as he took his seat.
Seven years longer the grand old man lived at Caprera, now beautified
with gifts from all the world, the recipient of a thank-offering of
$10,000 yearly from Italy. Around him were Francesca, whom he married
late in life, and their two children whom he idolized,--Manlio and
Clelia. He spent his time in writing several books, in tilling the soil,
and in telling visitors the wonderful events of his life and of Anita.
On June 2, 1882, all day long he lay by the window, looking out upon the
sea. As the sun was setting, a bird alighted on the sill, singing. The
great man stammered, "Quanti o allegro!" How joyful it is! and closed
his eyes in death. He directed in his will that his body should be
burned; but, at the request of the Government and many friends, it was
buried at Caprera, to be transferred at some future time to Rome, now
the capital of united Italy. Not alone does Italy honor her great
Liberator, whom she calls the "most blameless and most beloved of men."
Wherever a heart loves liberty, there will Garibaldi's name be cherished
and honored.
JEAN PAUL RICHTER.
Vasari, who wrote the lives of the Italian painters, truly said, "It is
not by sleeping, but by working, waking, and laboring continually, that
proficiency is attained and reputation acquired." This was emphatically
true of Richter, as it is of every man or woman who wins a place in the
memory of men. The majority die after a commonplace life, and are never
heard of; they were probably satisfied to drift along the current, with
no especial purpose, save to eat, drink, and be merry.
Not so with the German boy, born in the cold Pine Mountains of Bavaria.
His home was a low, thatched building, made of beams of wood, filled in
with mortar, one part for the family, and the other for corn and goats.
This is still the custom in Switzerland, the poor caring as tenderly for
their dumb beasts as for their children. Jean Paul was born on the 21st
of March, 1763: "My life and the life of the spring began the same
month," he used to say in after years, and the thought of robin
red-breasts and spring flowers made the poor lad happy amid the deepest
trials.
His father was an under-pastor and organist in the little village of
Wunsiedel, and lived on a pitiful salary; but, generous to a fault, he
stripped off his own garments to clothe the poor, and sent the
schoolmaster a meal every day, because, if possible, he was poorer than
the preacher. In school, Jean Paul was a studious boy, almost envying
every one who said his lessons well, and fond of his teachers and mates;
but one of the boys having cut Paul's hand, the father at once took him
home and became his instructor. A painstaking and conscientious man, he
showed little aptness for his work, when he gave his boy, at nine years
of age, a Latin dictionary to commit to memory! For four solid hours in
the morning, and three in the afternoon, Paul and his brother learned
grammatical lessons and Latin verses of which they did not understand a
word. Still the boy grew more and more fond of books, and of
Nature,--made clocks with pendulums and wheels; a sun-dial, drawing his
figures on a wooden plate with ink; invented a new language from the
calendar signs of the almanac; and composed music on an old harpsichord
whose only tuning-hammer and tuning-master were the winds and the
weather.
When Paul was thirteen, the family moved to Schwarzenbach, where he made
the acquaintance of a young pastor, Vogel, who owned quite a valuable
library, and encouraged him to educate himself. Given free access to the
books, he began to read eagerly. Thinking that he should never own
volumes for himself, he made blank-books, of three hundred pages each,
from his father's sermon-paper, and began the almost interminable labor
of copying whatever he thought he should need in law, medicine,
philosophy, theology, natural history, and poetry. For nearly four years
he worked thus, till he had quite a library of his own, and a wealth of
information in his brain, which proved invaluable in the writing of
after years. Such a boy could not fail of success.
Paul's father, meantime, had become despondent over his debts, small
though they were, and died when his son was sixteen. The grandfather on
the mother's side dying soon after, Frau Richter became entitled by will
to his property. The remaining brothers and sisters at once went to law
about the matter, preferring to spend the estate in the courts rather
than have a favorite child enjoy it. Two years later, at eighteen, Paul
started for college at Leipzig, hoping that in this cultured city he
might teach while pursuing his own studies. Alas! scores had come with
the same hope, and there was no work to be obtained. He found himself
alone in a great city, poorly dressed, timid, sensitive, and without a
hand to help. Many boys had brought letters of introduction to the
professors, and thus of course received attention. He wrote to his
mother, "The most renowned, whose esteem would be useful to me, are
oppressed with business, surrounded by a multitude of respectable
people, and by a swarm of envious flatterers. If one would speak to a
professor without a special invitation, he incurs the suspicion of
vanity. But do not give up your hopes. I will overcome all these
difficulties. I shall receive some little help, and at length I shall
not need it." All honor to the brave boy who could write so
encouragingly in the midst of want and loneliness!
He longed to make the acquaintance of some learned people, but there was
no opportunity. Finally, getting deeper and deeper into debt, he wrote
to his mother, "As I have no longer any funds, I must continue to be
trusted. But what can I at last expect? I must eat, and I cannot
continue to be trusted. I cannot freeze, but where shall I get wood
without money? I can no longer take care of my health, for I have warm
food neither morning nor evening. It is now a long time since I asked
you for twenty-six dollars; when they come, I shall scarcely be able to
pay what I already owe. Perhaps the project I have in my head will
enable me to earn for you and myself." Poor lad! how many hearts have
ached from poverty just as did his. The mother was also in debt, but in
some way she managed to obtain the money; for what will a mother not do
for her child?
Paul worked on, but was soon in debt again. He could tell nobody but his
devoted mother: "I will not ask you for money to pay my victualler," he
wrote, "to whom I owe twenty-four dollars; nor my landlady to whom I am
indebted ten; or even for other debts, that amount to six dollars. For
these great sums I will ask no help, but for the following you must not
deny me your assistance. I must every week pay the washerwoman, who does
not trust. I must drink some milk every morning. I must have my boots
soled by the cobbler, who does not trust; my torn cap must be repaired
by the tailor, who does not trust; and I must give something to the
maid-servant, who of course does not trust. Eight dollars of Saxon money
will satisfy all, and then I shall need your help no longer."
He was keeping up courage, because he was writing a book! He told his
mother, with his high dreams of young authorship, that he should bring
home all his old shirts and stockings at vacation, for he should buy new
ones then! It is well that all the mountains seem easy to climb in
youth; when we are older, we come to know their actual height. The
mother discouraged authorship, and hoped her boy would become a
preacher; but his project was too dear to be given up. When his book of
satirical essays, called "Eulogy of Stupidity," was finished, it was
sent, with beating heart, to a publisher. In vain Paul awaited its
return. He hoped it would be ready at Michaelmas fair, but the publisher
"so long and so kindly patronized the book by letting it lie on his
desk, that the fair was half over before the manuscript was returned."
The boyish heart must have ached when the parcel came. He had not
learned, what most authors are familiar with, the heart sickness from
first rejected manuscripts. He had not learned, too, that fame is a hard
ladder to climb, and that a "friend at court" is often worth as much, or
more, than merit. Publishers are human, and cannot always see merit till
fame is won.
For a whole year Paul tried in vain to find a publisher. Then he said to
the manuscript, "Lie there in the corner together with school exercises,
for thou art no better. I will forget, for the world would certainly
have forgotten thee." Faint from lack of food, he says, "I undertook
again a wearisome work, and created in six months a brand-new satire."
This book was called the "Greenland Lawsuits," a queer title for a
collection of essays on theology, family pride, women, fops, and the
like.
Paul had now gained courage by failure. Instead of writing a letter, he
went personally to every publisher in Leipzig, and offered his
manuscript, and every publisher refused it. Finally he sent it to Voss
of Berlin. On the last day of December, as he sat in his room, hungry,
and shivering because there was no fire in the stove, there was a knock
at the door, and a letter from Voss was handed in. He opened it hastily,
and found an offer of seventy dollars for the "Greenland Lawsuits."
Through his whole life he looked back to this as one of its supreme
moments. It was not a great sum, only three dollars a week for the six
months, but it was the first fruit of his brain given to the public. He
was now nineteen. What little property the mother had possessed had
wasted away in the lawsuits; one brother in his despair had drowned
himself, and another had entered the army; but Paul still had hope in
the future.
After a short vacation with his mother, he went back to Leipzig. The
second volume of the "Greenland Lawsuits" was now published, and for
this he received one hundred and twenty-six dollars,--nearly twice that
given for the first volume. This did not take with the public, and the
third volume was refused by every publisher. His money was gone. What
could he do? He would try, as some other authors had done, the plan of
writing letters to distinguished people, telling them his needs. He did
so, but received no answers. Then, spurred on by necessity, he took the
manuscript in his hand, and presented it himself at the doors of the
learned; but he was either not listened to, or repulsed on every
occasion. How one pities this lad of nineteen! How many wealthy men
might have aided him, but they did not! He wrote a few essays for
various periodicals, but these brought little money, and were seldom
wanted. His high hopes for a literary career began to vanish.
It was evident that he must give up college life, for he could not get
enough to eat. He had long discontinued his evening meal, making his
supper of a few dried prunes. His boarding-mistress was asking daily for
her dues. He could bear the privation and the disgrace no longer, and,
packing his satchel, and borrowing a coat from a college boy, that he
might not freeze, he stole away from Leipzig in the darkness of the
twilight, and went home to his disconsolate mother. Is it any wonder
that the poor are disconsolate? Is it any wonder that they regard the
wealthy as usually cold and indifferent to their welfare? Alas! that so
many of us have no wish to be our "brother's keeper."
Perhaps some of the professors and students wondered where the bright
lad had gone; but the world forgets easily. Frau Richter received her
college boy with a warm heart, but an empty purse. She was living with
her two children in one room, supporting them as best she could by
spinning, working far into the night. In this room, where cooking,
washing, cleaning, and spinning were all carried on, Paul placed his
little desk and began to write. Was the confusion trying to his
thoughts? Ah! necessity knows no law. He says, "I was like a prisoner,
without the prisoner's fare of bread and water, for I had only the
latter; and if a gulden found its way into the house, the jubilee was
such that the windows were nearly broken with joy." But with the
strength of a noble and heroic nature, he adds, "What is poverty that a
man should whine under it? It is but like the pain of piercing the ears
of a maiden, and you hang precious jewels in the wound."
The family were so needy, however, that they must look somewhere for
aid, and hesitatingly Paul applied to Vogel, the young pastor, who
loaned them twenty-five gulden. Very soon the boarding-mistress from
Leipzig appeared, having walked the whole way to Hof, and demanded her
pay. In his distress Paul sent her to another friend, Otto, who became
surety for the debt.
Richter now began to work harder than ever. His books of extracts were
invaluable, as were his hand-books of comical matters, touching
incidents, synonyms, etc. He made it a rule to write half a day, and
take long walks in the afternoon in the open air, thinking out the plans
for his books. Poor as he was, he was always cheerful, sustaining by his
letters any who were downhearted. One of his best friends, Herman, who
had become a physician through much struggle, died about this time,
broken on the wheel of poverty. Despite his own starving condition, Paul
sent him five dollars. Having an opportunity to teach French to the
brother of a Leipzig friend, he accepted; but at the end of three years,
through the disappointing character of the pupil, and the miserliness of
the father, Paul returned to his mother, broken in health and
dispirited. His heart ached for those who like himself were suffering,
and now he made a resolution that changed for life the course of his
writing. He would write satire no more. He said, "I will not pour into
the cup of humanity a single drop of gall." Henceforward love, and hope,
and tenderness, breathe upon his every page.
He now wrote ten essays on "What is Death?" asking the noble-hearted
Herder to send them to Weiland for his magazine, lest they be overlooked
in his mass of papers, if Richter, unaided, should venture to ask the
favor. They were overlooked for months; but finally Herder procured the
insertion of one essay in a different magazine, but Richter never
received any pay for it. Three years had passed, and all this time the
third volume of the "Greenland Lawsuits" had been journeying from one
publishing house to another. At last it was accepted, but little money
came from it.
Again he taught,--this time at Schwarzenbach, where he used to go to
school. Here his tenderness, his tact, and good cheer won the hearts of
the pupils. There was no memorizing of Latin dictionaries, but the exact
work of all was kept in a "red book" for parents to see. He instructed
them orally five hours a day, till they were eager for astronomy,
history, and biography. For four years he taught, "his schoolroom being
his Paradise," every Sunday walking to Hof to see his mother. Well might
he say, "To the man who has had a mother all women are sacred for her
sake."